THE

FA N D O M
ANNA DAY

SCHOLASTIC INC. / NEW YORK

 PRO LO G U E

E
xactly one week from t­ oday, I ­will hang.
Iw
­ ill hang for my friends, my f­ amily, and, above all e­ lse,
love. A thought that offers surprisingly l­ittle comfort when I
think about the noose closing around my neck, my feet searching
for solid ground, my legs flailing . . . ​dancing in midair.
This morning I was clueless. This morning I was at Comic-­
Con, inhaling the scent of hot dogs and sweat and perfume, taking
in the brightly colored costumes, the flash of the cameras, the bass
drums and the violins. And yesterday I was in school, stressing over
some stupid En­glish pre­sen­ta­tion and wishing I w ­ ere in another
world.
Be careful what you wish for, b­ ecause sometimes the real­ity
truly blows.
 CHAPTER 1

I
begin to stand, realize my maxi skirt has stuck to my thighs,
and subtly unpeel the cotton from my skin.
“Go for it,” Katie whispers.
I ­don’t reply. Why did I volunteer to do this stupid pre­sen­ta­
tion? Public speaking: not my strong point. Let’s be honest, public
anything: not my strong point.
“Whenever ­you’re ready, Violet,” Miss Thompson says.
I give the fabric one final tug and make my way to the front of
the class. I suddenly feel very small, like my classmates have shrink
rays attached to their eyes. Shrinking Violet. This makes me
laugh—­now I look unhinged as well as ner­vous.
Miss Thompson smiles at me from her crumbling desk. “So,
Violet, tell us about your favorite novel, which is . . . ?”
“The Gallows Dance by Sally King,” I reply.
A collective groan from the boys in the back row. But ­they’re
only faking disappointment. I saw them at the cinema less than a
year ago when the film version came out and, as I recall, they all left
with suspiciously red eyes.
I take a deep breath and begin to talk.
“Once upon a time, ­there lived a race known as the ­humans.
4 AN NA DAY

“The h­ umans w ­ ere smart and ambitious, but they w ­ ere also greedy, a
greed that extended to their ever-­increasing obsession with perfection—­
the perfect body, mind, and life. At the turn of the twenty-­second ­century,
this obsession led to the first wave of genet­ically enhanced ­humans.”
I leave a dramatic pause and glance around the room. I’d
hoped t­hey’d look enthralled, wide-­eyed, but instead they look
half-­asleep.
“The Gems. Genet­ ically Enhanced Man. Tall, strong, good-­
looking, Intelligence Quotients above 130. It w ­ asn’t long before the
Gems moved to beautiful areas of countryside called the Pastures, ­free
from disease and crime.”
I shift my weight between my feet, sweep my hair from my
eyes, and push that nagging thought that I’m making a ­giant fool
of myself into the dark, unused part of my brain.
“But what of the non-­genetically enhanced h­ umans? Normal men
and ­woman like you and me. They became known as the Imperfects.
The Imps. Sealed inside the old cities—­London, Manchester, Paris,
Moscow—­rife with disease and crime, locked b­ ehind miles of snaking
city walls and bombed into submission. Only the stronger and more
able Imps w ­ ere permitted to enter the Pastures, to serve the Gems as
slaves.
“The word ­human became unspoken . . . ​forbidden.
“­There w­ ere only Gems and Imps—­”
“So, I’m an Imp,” Ryan Bell interrupts from the back of the
class. “Is that what y­ ou’re saying?”
­Great. Just what I need—­a heckler. And I wish I had the balls
to point out that he must already know this, having sat through
two hours of the film, Kleenex firmly clamped to nose.
“Shut it, jerkhead,” Katie says. Her red bob whips in a perfect
arc as she spins around to face him. I c­ an’t see her features, but I
 T H E FA N D O M 5

know she’s giving him that look. The one where she narrows her
pea-­green eyes and presses her lips together.
“­There a­ in’t nothing imperfect about me,” Ryan says.
Katie makes this strange noise, halfway between a laugh and a
cough.
Miss Thompson frowns. “I think what Violet is trying to say is
that w­ e’re all Imps, Ryan. ­Unless ­you’re a superhuman from the
­future—­which I highly doubt.”
Deep breath. Ignore the numb lips.
“To ensure the continued subjugation of the Imps, the Gems gath-
ered ­every week in ­great Coliseums and watched the Imps hang, an
event known as the Gallows Dance. But some of the Imps refused to
accept their fate, forming a group of rebels, determined to reinstate
basic Imp rights. The rebel leader was called Thorn.”
I fumble with my papers and locate his picture. A printout
from the film. Miss Thompson slides it from my clammy fin­gers
and pins it to the wall. Thorn’s image completely fails to capture his
power, his drive. This small, he just looks like a bondage-­pirate-­
action-­man, head to toe in black leather, eye patch slung across his
chiseled face.
“Thorn hatched an elaborate plan to obtain Gem government
secrets and asked his two most trusted rebels to recruit a young,
female Imp.
“They recruited Rose.”
Rose. The heroine of this tale. Passionate, impulsive, coura-
geous. ­Every day, without fail, I wish I were her. And so far, h­ ere’s
how I mea­sure up . . . ​
Passionate: My nickname is Violet the Virgin.
Impulsive: I spent two days planning this pre­sen­ta­tion.
Courageous: My face has started to sweat.
6 AN NA DAY

In fact, the only t­ hing we share is our pale skin and our taste
in men.
I nod to Miss Thompson, who takes her cue and crosses to the
interactive whiteboard. A YouTube clip launches into action—­
the opening scene of the film. The camera zooms in on Rose as she
scales the outer stone wall of the Coliseum. She looks awesome, her
long dark hair tumbling down her back. She reaches the crest of
the wall, accompanied by a swell of violins.
The camera switches to the spectators inside the Coliseum. A
crowd of Gems—­their beautiful ­faces baying for Imp blood. Nine
condemned Imps are led onto a wooden stage, the nooses placed
around their necks. I know t­ hey’re only moments from being freed,
yet I still feel this twist of anxiety in my stomach. I steal a quick
look at my classmates. They actually look concerned, absorbed. A
smile pulls at the corners of my mouth.
The Gem president appears on a g­ iant screen b­ ehind the
stage and introduces the condemned Imps by their alleged crimes:
theft, rape, murder. The camera swings back to Rose, her dark
hair whipping before her eyes—­she knows the condemned Imps
are guilty only of poverty and hunger. She pulls a grenade from
her ­belt, touches it to her lips, and then hurls it over the crowd
below.
The clip ends just before the bomb goes off.
I turn back to the class, bolstered by their sudden interest.
“While the Gems ­were distracted by the bomb, the rebels launched
a rescue mission and saved the condemned Imps from the gallows. Rose
slipped down the outer wall undetected, her worth as a rebel secured.
“So Thorn sent Rose on the most dangerous rebel mission to date:
the Harper mission. Rose infiltrated the Harper estate deep in the
Pastures and posed as a slave for the master of the house—­Jeremy
 T H E FA N D O M 7

Harper, a power­ful Gem official. Rose quickly befriended Jeremy’s son

so she could discover classified Gem information.
“Jeremy’s son was a Gem named Willow.”
Willow. The main reason I wish I were Rose. And even though
my hands still ­tremble, the residue of adrenaline moving through
my veins, I keep gripping his picture, holding it up for the class to
see. I just ­can’t bear the thought of a thumbtack jabbing a hole in his
perfect face. I’ve gazed at this poster for hours, memorized ­every con-
tour of t­hose features—­all caramel skin and cheekbones. I hear a
­couple of sighs from the girls, a ­couple of “hubba-­hubba” noises fol-
lowed by a cluster of giggles. I tuck his image back into my pile of
notes, a sense of possession gnawing at me.
“Spying and relations with a Gem: two crimes punishable by death
for any Imp unfortunate enough to get caught. But Willow was kind
and beautiful, and Rose soon realized that her greatest threat was the
strength of her feelings for him. Unable to betray him, she fled the
manor without ever revealing her true identity as a rebel. She returned
to the Imp city, informing Thorn that the Harper mission was a
failure—­”
“Boring,” Ryan says.
“Ryan, seriously,” Miss Thompson snaps. “Stop interrupting,
­you’re seventeen now and I expect better.” She turns to me and
smiles. “And I think w ­ e’ve just reached the midway twist, the turn-
ing point, is that right, Violet?”
I nod. “Rose fled the manor to protect him, she prioritized
Willow over the rebels. She chose love.”
“Yes. An example of how popu­lar, modern novels still follow
the traditional plot structure . . . ​Carry on.”
“Willow disguised himself as an Imp and followed Rose across the
city, desperate to win her back. But he was captured by the rebels and,
8 AN NA DAY

fi­nally, he learned of Rose’s initial plan to betray him. Heartbroken,

held captive, all hope seemed lost.
“But Rose told him she truly loved him, and together they escaped
from the rebels, determined to forge a new life together.
“Sometimes, however, love cannot conquer all.
“The Gem authorities tracked them down and Rose was taken to
the Gallows Dance, accused of seducing an innocent Gem boy.”
Another YouTube clip. Rose at the Gallows Dance, but this
time, she stands on the wooden stage at the front of the Coliseum
with a noose around her neck, the crowd of Gems chanting for
her blood.
“STOP!” Willow vaults onto the stage. “My name is Willow Harper.
And the Imp y­ ou’re about to hang has a name. Rose. And she is the bravest,
kindest person I’ve ever known. Imp or Gem, she is a ­human being. She
­isn’t a temptress or a criminal. She is my best friend. And I love her with all
my heart.” He gazes into her determined face. “I love you, Rose.”
“I love you, too,” she cries back.
I know what’s g­ oing to happen, of course I do, but I still feel
the weight of tears on my lower lashes, this overwhelming urge to
reach into that 2-­D image and snip the rope.
The trapdoor beneath Rose’s feet flies open. Her body drops,
her legs twisting and kicking as she dances her final dance.
The clip ends. Nobody speaks.
Fi­nally, Miss Thompson breaks the silence. “What a wonder-
ful black moment the author created. But surely t­here’s some sort
of resolution?”
I nod, and shuffle to my last page of crumpled notes.
“Willow cradled Rose’s lifeless body, his tears falling onto her face.
He berated the Gems for allowing government-­sanctioned murder to
 T H E FA N D O M 9

continue, he begged them to join him. So moved w ­ ere the Gems by this
tragic scene, they ripped the gallows to the ground.
“The Gallows Dance was fi­nally banned.
“Rose’s death sparked a revolution.
“And the Imps and Gems called themselves ­humans once again.”
The walls seem to absorb my final words, and I somehow
manage to swallow even though I have no saliva in my mouth.
Another silence. I wish Alice ­were h ­ ere; she would clap and cheer
and shout, “Encore,” and every­one e­ lse would join in.
I catch Katie’s eye for a moment. She winks. Not quite the
public display of support I’d hoped for, but it makes me feel better
all the same.
“Thank you, Violet.” Miss Thompson peers at me from over
her glasses. “What a wonderful pre­sen­ta­tion.”
“Thanks, I wanted to do the book justice.”
Miss Thompson smiles. “I can tell from the amount of color
you put into it. ­We’ll make a writer of you yet.”
I flush with plea­sure. Writing has always been Alice’s ­thing—­I’ve
never dared touch it, ­until now. “Thanks, Miss Thompson.”
Kiss ass. Teacher’s pet. Hisses from the back of the class.
I slide back into my chair. Katie nudges me and whispers, “That
went ­really well.” But I can still hear Ryan and his accomplices snig-
gering, the edges of their words blurring together, and my cheeks
begin to feel hot and itchy again and the bastard notes w ­ on’t stop
sticking to my palms. Rose w ­ ouldn’t have fallen to pieces like this.
I let my hair fall in front of my face, providing a dark, wavy shield.
“So t­ here we have it,” Miss Thompson says. “We’ve heard the
plots of three very dif­fer­ent novels, yet seen how they all follow
roughly the same structure.”
10 AN NA DAY

The bell rings, accompanied by the scrabbling of books and

pens and backpacks.
Katie helps peel the paper from my clammy hands. “God, you
­really love that bloody book.”
“Yeah.”
“You should have seen your face when you mentioned Willow.”
“That’s just my face.”
She bats her eyelashes. “But Willow was kind and beautiful,
and Violet—­sorry, I mean Rose—­soon realized that her greatest
threat was the strength of her raging hormones.” She puckers up
her lips, making the freckles on her nose elongate.
“Piss off.” I laugh. Katie always makes me laugh. The tension
drains from my body and I fi­nally manage to stuff the disintegrat-
ing notes into my bag. Katie moved from Liverpool to London only
last summer, so I ­haven’t known her long, but we had this instant
connection. She’s got this dry sense of humor and she uses all t­ hese
hilarious swearwords like cockwomble and knobjockey, and she
talks with a gentle Liverpudlian accent that always makes her seem
grounded—­“salt of the earth,” my dad once called her. Yet she
looks like something from a Jane Austen novel, with her doll-­like
features and light-­red hair . . . ​She actually plays the cello. The only
­thing I play is the Xbox.
“­Don’t worry about Dickhead, he just fancies you,” she says.
“Yeah, right. He’s embarrassed ’cause me and Alice caught
him blubbering in the cinema last year.”
She shoves her chair back. “Come on, you know y­ ou’re hot.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I’m sweating like a pig a­ fter that car crash.”
“Just ­because y­ ou’re not six foot and blonde like some ­people.”
She means Alice. I d ­ on’t reply. It’s hard when your best friend
looks like Britain’s Next Top Model. A ­little kernel of envy lodges
 T H E FA N D O M 11

in my chest and I hate myself for it. We join the throng of students
in the corridor, all hurrying to get home.
I change the subject. “I ­can’t believe you still ­haven’t read The
Gallows Dance, it’s a rite of passage.” The crowd snatches my voice
away, and I’m left feeling very small once again.
“Well, I d ­ on’t need to now. You should come with a spoiler
alert.”
“You h ­ aven’t even seen the film.”
“Again. Spoiler alert.”
We elbow through a group of fourteen-­year-­old girls who d ­ on’t
seem to know the unspoken rule of moving out of the way for
upperclassmen.
I accidentally-­on-­purpose tread on a blonde girl’s toe. “Yeah,
but Russell’s seriously fit.” I’m talking about Russell Jones, the actor
who plays Willow in the film.
“­Really? Y ­ ou’ve never mentioned it. H­ ere comes Alice.” The
smile never leaves Katie’s mouth, but it slips completely from her
eyes. Like me, she’s learned to tell when Alice approaches by read-
ing other p­ eople. ­Every male glances over his shoulder, ­every girl
falls s­ ilent, brow knitted in a tight frown.
Sure enough, the crowd parts like the Red Sea, but this Moses
has long, bronzed legs that swallow up the tiled floor as she
strides t­oward us. A smile lights up her perfect oval face. She’s
always had that smile, ever since I met her on our first day at pri-
mary school—­the kind of smile that makes you forgive her for
being so beautiful.
She stops dead in the ­middle of the corridor, confident she
­won’t get jostled. “So how did it go?”
“It was a bag of crap,” I say.
Katie pats my back. “No, it ­wasn’t, it was g­ reat.”
12 AN NA DAY

“Yeah, a g­ reat big bag of crap,” I reply.

Alice flips her pale hair over one shoulder. “­Don’t worry, Vi,
they clearly ­don’t get the beauty that is The Gallows Dance—­
philistines.” She shoots a meaningful look at Katie.
“It’s hardly Shakespeare,” Katie mutters.
Alice sighs. “I wish I was in old Thompson’s class, you get
loads better stuff to do than us. Plot structure, I could have ­really
contributed to that.” She loves reminding us she’s a rising fanfic
star. She writes all this new material based on The Gallows Dance,
messing with the plot, making the characters bend to her w ­ ill. It’s
ironic she feels the need to do this when she’s so accomplished at
getting ­people to do what she wants in real life—­perhaps writing is
where she hones her art. I swallow down that l­ittle kernel of envy
again.
“Miss Thompson said Violet could be a writer, d ­ idn’t she, Vi?”
Katie says.
Alice looks at me and winks an inky-­blue eye. “Bullshit. You
­haven’t got the imagination, you’d just rewrite The Gallows Dance
again and again.” She loops her arm around my shoulder and
gives me a squeeze. “Which is a good ­thing, obviously.” The scent
of her hair—­cherry blossom and lemongrass—­f ills my nostrils.
I suddenly feel very special, Alice hugging me in public.
Katie glances at her watch. “Look, guys, I’ve got to go. I’ve got
a cello lesson in five, but I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Comic-­Con,” Alice and I say in unison. We look at each other
and smile. We’ve been waiting for this for months; we get to meet
Russell. Willow. The dry mouth returns and I get this tremor of
excitement in my belly, this feeling like my skin’s been briskly
toweled.
 T H E FA N D O M 13

“­We’re g­ oing as characters from The Gallows Dance, agreed?”

Alice says.
“Yeah, Nate’s been planning his costume for days,” I reply.
Nate’s my l­ittle b­ rother, he loves The Gallows Dance more than me
if that’s pos­si­ble, and Mum insisted he tag along. Thanks, Mum.
Katie begins to walk away. “See you tomorrow, fangirls,” she
calls over her shoulder.
 CHAPTER 2

W
hen i pulled on my costume this morning, I sud-
denly understood how Clark Kent could fly, how
Peter Parker could scale walls with his sticky palms.
It’s that feeling like you can be anyone . . . ​do anything. I ­imagined
somehow absorbing Rose’s strength and beauty, simply by wearing
her clothes—­that burlap fabric knitting into my skin and becom-
ing part of me.
I’d ­really embraced cosplay this year. Brown tunic, green leg-
gings, army boots, my dark hair allowed to curl and frizz. I’d even
smudged my cheeks with olive eyeshadow in an attempt to look
battle-­ready. My only nod to vanity was the red sash I’d tied around
my ­middle, emphasizing the narrowness of my waist. I felt battle-­
ready, Comic-­Con ready, bring-­down-­the-­Gems ready.
But now, swaying to the rhythm of the Underground, I just
feel like an idiot.
The tunnels change from cast iron to brick as we hurtle ­toward
Ken­sington Olympia. I feel the pressure of sixty-­odd eyes on my
back, and my fin­gers grip the cool of the handrail a ­little tighter.
But when I fi­nally stop staring at the grubby train floor, I notice
 T H E FA N D O M 15

most passengers are gawking at ­either Katie—­who looks even

more stupid than me—or Alice.
Granted, p­ eople always stare at Alice, but t­oday, dressed in an
electric-­blue minidress and propped against a vertical yellow pole
like she may just launch into a routine, she commands even more
attention than usual. Her hair is hanging down her back and, I
notice with a burst of pride, she’s wearing her split-­heart necklace.
My fin­gers toy with the other half, the jagged edge cutting into my
fingertips. She studies her ghostlike reflection in the win­dow, bit-
ing a painted lip as though something i­sn’t quite right. That’s the
­thing when y­ ou’re gorgeous; y­ ou’ve got something to lose.
I touch her hand, a habit from childhood. “You look amazing.”
“As do you.” She flashes her perfect smile.
“I look like an urchin.”
“I thought that was the point. Rose is an urchin, all Imps are.”
Katie groans, appraising her boyish frame. She’s wearing a
black catsuit with a series of multicolored stockings slung diago-
nally across her m ­ iddle—­strange vines hugging a tree. “At least
your tights d ­ on’t keep falling down.” She repositions a neon-­
yellow stocking beneath her armpit and attempts to fasten it with
a safety pin.
Nate throws her a sideways glance. “You do know what a DNA
helix looks like, d ­ on’t you, Katie? You look more like a h ­ uman
helter-­skelter.” He’s fourteen, but he looks about twelve and some-
times talks like Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory. And
he looks so silly dressed as his hero, Thorn. His eye patch swamps
his angular face, and his narrow body barely fills his leather
coat. He d ­ oesn’t look old enough to deliver a pizza, let alone Imp
emancipation.
16 AN NA DAY

Katie eyes the outline of his jacket. Her lips press together as
she prevents an insult from popping out, instead muttering, “I
know, I know” before the motion of the train makes her fumble
the pin. “She must have pricked” her fin­ger, b­ ecause she grumbles,
“Crap” and sucks the blood before turning back to Nate. “But I
­didn’t want to come as an Imp. Every­one w ­ ill come as an Imp—”
She glances at me, guilt flickering beneath her dainty features.
“Sorry, Vi. And I ­couldn’t very well go as a Gem, not like Alice the
Amazon h ­ ere . . . ​I’m only five foot two.”
Alice strokes her hair, as though coaxing an idea from her brain.
“­There are loads of attractive midgets . . . ​Tinkerbell . . . ​Smurfette.”
“Who’d fancy a Smurf?” Katie says.
“Another Smurf,” I say.
The Tube hits a smooth patch and Katie fi­nally secures the
clasp. “Well, I’m not a bloody Smurf, am I? I’m a helix and I’m
proud.”
“You should be flattered,” Nate says. “Who’d want to look like
the ­human Barbie over ­there?” He gestures to Alice.
“Aw, thanks, Nate,” Alice says, her cheeks filling with color.
He snaps up his eye patch and gives her a long, hard stare.
“It ­wasn’t a compliment. Filthy, Frankenstein Gem.”
“That’s brilliant . . . ​Filthy, Frankenstein Gem . . . ​and it ­isn’t
from the original . . . ​not canon?” She always refers to The Gallows
Dance as canon, once again reminding us of her status as a fanfic
writer. She’s even started calling her own work the current, as if the
original novel is totally old-­school in comparison. She has no idea
how arrogant it makes her sound. She whips her iPhone from her
Michael Kors bag and begins typing in the insult, her azure nails
clicking against the screen. “Filthy, Frankenstein Gem—­I’m totally
­going to use that in my next piece.”
 T H E FA N D O M 17

Nate exhales sharply. “Write your own material.”

The Tube slows and we hear the pop of the metal doors open-
ing. The Scooby-­Doo gang pile in, shining like multicolored tid-
dledywinks against the gray backdrop of the Underground. I
realize w ­ e’re nearly t­here. Comic-­Con. I inhale a shaky breath. In
only a few hours, I ­will meet Russell Jones, Willow, and I’m dressed
as the object of his desire—­Rose. The Juliet to his Romeo, the
Scarlett O’Hara to his Rhett Butler. I feel like stamping my over-
size Imp boots in a happy l­ittle dance.
“You know he’s ­going to meet hundreds of Roses ­today, ­don’t
you, sis?”
I hate the way Nate can read my mind.
The washed-­out symmetry of Olympia seems completely
at odds with the brilliance of the May sky and the cartoonlike
figures weaving t­oward the entrance. We join the back of the
queue.
“I suddenly feel very overdressed,” I say, unable to avert my
eyes from the acres of exposed flesh. Princess Leia, Won­ der
­Woman, Daenerys Targaryen—­all thighs and cleavage and fake
bake. I study my pale forearms and suppress a sigh. “And by over-
dressed, I mean not nearly naked enough.”
“. . . Are the words no l­ittle b­ rother should ever have to hear,”
Nate says.
Katie laughs. “Aw, poor Violet. How do you think I feel?”
“Like you should have come as Lara Croft,” Alice says.
“Seriously, girls—­and boy—­how am I the only one who owns a
Wonderbra?” She puffs out her impressive chest and winks.
“I own a bra,” Nate says. “Sophie Wainright’s . . . ​and it’s red.”
He must see the look of horror on my face, b­ ecause he quickly
adds, “Nothing weird. I swiped it off her clothesline as a dare.”
18 AN NA DAY

He flicks his sandy hair from his forehead. He looks more like a
pixie than a boy.
The queue moves slowly. Time moves slowly. I examine ­every
stitch of Indiana Jones’s waistcoat, e­very crimson brushstroke of
Iron Man’s chest. I imagine Russell Jones’s face, the bow of his
upper lip, the way his hand w ­ ill skim mine as we pose side by side
for the camera. By the time I reach the entrance, my ticket’s pretty
much dissolved in my sweaty hands.
I visited Olympia a few months ago on a school trip. Katie and
Alice came, too, looking slightly more normal and slightly less
excited. I still remember the way the sun slanted through the wall
of glass, the dust motes dancing all the way to the domed ceiling,
the white lattice of the metal beams. It looked beautiful, like a vast,
forgotten ballroom. T ­ oday, crammed with the vivid and slightly
disorienting world of cosplay, it feels like stepping onto a film set or
a dif­fer­ent world.
“This is awesome,” Katie says. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard
her excited about anything Gallows Dance related.
I nod. “Fi­nally, she gets it.”
That tremor of excitement returns as I strug­gle to take it all in.
Cosplayers and plain-­clothed fans spill from the balcony and pack
the ground floor. They talk and laugh and pose for photos—­just
the sheer number of them makes me feel so insignificant. Banners
fall from the ceiling like g­ reat, colorful sails, boasting slogans and
Photoshopped ­faces. Game of Thrones, Star Wars, The Gallows
Dance. And the air feels almost humid on my skin, laced with the
scent of hot dogs and sweat and perfume. The flash of cameras
surrounds me, and it feels like I’m standing in a massive disco ball.
“­There’s Willow.” Alice clasps my arm, her fin­gers curling into
my flesh like talons. For a moment, I think she can actually see
 T H E FA N D O M 19

him—­Russell Jones—­and my stomach spasms. But then I realize

she’s pointing to the banner overhead, his face staring down on us
like some ­giant, St. Tropez–ed angel.
“Come on, let’s check out The Gallows Dance stall.” Alice
strides ahead and the crowd parts, as per usual.
I can feel Nate, pushing his arm into mine like he’s scared he
might lose me. And I suddenly feel the overwhelming weight of
parental responsibility, Mum’s words thumping in my head: You
must look a­ fter your l­ittle b­ rother, Violet. I link my arm through his
and push ­after Alice, elbowing several Spocks in the ribs and
hopping over Captain Amer­i­ca’s toes. I dodge another Rose, who
scowls at me, and nudge past Boba Fett. He carries his helmet
beneath his arm, the dark of his hair plastered to his forehead with
gel. He winks at me—­I mean, actually winks, like he ­doesn’t look
like an oversize silver crustacean. Secretly, I feel pleased he winked
at me and not Alice. Maybe I can be anyone . . . ​do anything. A
smile tugs at my lips.
“­Will you stop thinking about Russell,” Katie says, studying
my face.
I glance at my watch. “Less than an hour now.”
“­There’ll be a queue, mind,” Alice says. “Willow’s the hottest
guy ever to exist in a dystopian f­ uture.”
“Surely it’s utopian, then, if Willow’s ­there,” I reply.
Alice snorts. “Gale . . . ​Four . . . ​Men that hot would make
anywhere a utopia in my mind.”
“Stupid names, though,” Nate says, dodging Spider-­Man. “It’s
one of the unwritten rules of all dystopian novels—­love interests
must have stupid names.”
Katie laughs. “And every­thing starts with a capital letter, even
if it’s just a normal word, just to make it sound scary.”
20 AN NA DAY

“That’s so true,” Nate says.

“And the government is always the baddie,” Katie says.
“Without fail. It’s so predictable. No won­der I h ­ aven’t read The
Gallows Dance. I bet it’s like all the ­others.”
“­You’re so ignorant,” Alice snaps.
“Anyway, Willow ­isn’t a stupid name,” I say, a ­little hurt by the
remark. “It’s natu­ral . . . ​earthy. It even sounds like leaves, sweeping
the grass, bumping up against each other, trailing in the w ­ ater.”
“Amen to that,” Alice says.
Nate pulls my arm into the thinness of his ribs. “God, y­ ou’re
pathetic.”
I scoff, but he’s kind of got a point. I am pathetic when it comes
to Willow, even though I know he’s make-­believe—­a figment of
some dead author’s imagination. I also know that Russell Jones is an
arrogant actor-­drunkard who beds models and snorts cocaine . . . ​
but in the absence of Willow, I w ­ ill pose with his avatar.
Speaking of which, an Avatar walks by. Tall, broad, even-­
featured. He looks like he may be attractive u ­ nder all that blue.
“OMG,” Katie squeals. “A sexy Smurf.”
 CHAPTER 3

W
e wait to meet Russell in a long, darkened room.
The queue’s shorter than I expected—­only a c­ ouple of
teenage girls scrolling through selfies on their phones.
A lady with a clipboard takes our names and collects our
crumpled ten-­spots. “Right, ­we’re ­doing well for time. I’ll be with
you again shortly.”
She leads the selfie girls through a door at the back. I crane my
neck to see if I can catch my first glimpse of Russell, but ­they’re too
damn quick.
Alice grips my hand. “I c­ an’t believe this is about to happen.”
“I know,” I reply.
“Do I look OK?” she asks.
I ­don’t even bother studying her. “Yeah, ’course.”
“Do you think Russell w ­ ill have heard of me?”
Nate laughs. “No way. He’s a megastar, he’s not ­going to be
reading some random fanfic by some wannabe Sally King.”
“Thanks, but I w ­ asn’t asking you,” Alice replies, her voice sour.
“And FYI, who’d want to be Sally King? Poor cow killed herself
­after one novel. I’m g­ oing to write a trilogy.”
“Wow, y­ ou’re all heart,” Nate says. “RIP, the lovely Sally King.”
22 AN NA DAY

“Who invited you anyway, squirt?” Alice pokes him in the ribs
and he squeals like he’s five. Anyone would think they ­were the
siblings, the way they carry on.
Clipboard Lady reappears. “Right, you guys are next.”
Alice pushes past us, her heels clacking against the floor. We
follow and enter another dimly lit room. I can see Russell Jones
standing at the back, his toned body squeezed between the selfie
girls, his strong fin­gers wrapped around their waists. He smiles as
a camera flashes, lighting up the network of scaffolds overhead and
the canvas ­behind him. The theme tune fills my head, all violins
and drums, and I feel a sudden surge of adrenaline.
Julia Starling—­the actress who plays Rose—­perches on a desk
and talks to some security guards. Cast in the emerald glow of the
stage lights, she looks even more ethereal than usual. Her thin
hands flutter before her face as she laughs her bell-­like laugh, and
her hair cascades down her back in dark, glossy waves, no frizz in
sight. I notice she wears blue jeans and a white blouse. I suddenly
feel like a fraud, standing in my tunic, pretending to be Rose. I
know I’m pretty, in a quirky, pale way (at least, p­ eople tell me I’m
pretty, in a quirky, pale way) but I could never match Julia’s grace,
the delicacy of her features.
The selfie girls leave. I watch Russell take a swig of w­ ater. I
can just make out the shape of his Adam’s apple moving down his
throat like the tip of a blade.
“Enjoy,” says Clipboard Lady, ushering us t­ oward him.
He nods at us, and his gaze immediately fixes on Alice. That
­little kernel of envy expands to fill my entire body.
A smile creeps across his face, his teeth so white they almost
glow. “A fellow Gem. An unpop­u­lar choice, but if you can pull it
off, why the hell not?”
 T H E FA N D O M 23

Alice laughs—­a ner­vous trill. “I know, right.”

He swishes his caramel hair from his eyes and turns his atten-
tion to me. “Ah . . . ​Rose, my love, y­ ou’ve found me at last.” His eyes
look just like Willow’s—­amber flecks radiating from his pupils,
like sunshine escaping from a black sphere, a solar eclipse. But they
lack some of Willow’s kindness.
“Jules,” he calls. “Hey, Jules, this is the best Rose ­we’ve seen
all day.”
Julia glances over her shoulder and grins. “You want my job,
girlie?”
I open my mouth to reply, but no noise escapes.
She laughs. “I’m just screwing with you . . . ​You look ­great,
­really. I love the sash.”
“Thanks.” My smile threatens to split my face in two.
Russell extends his hand ­toward Nate. “And you must be Thorn.”
Nate shakes his hand, a ­little too excitedly. “Big fan, big fan,
big, big fan . . .”
Russell gestures at the brooch on Nate’s tunic: a thistle head
carved from oak. “Nice badge—­the symbol of Imp rebels.”
“Cut us down and we come back stronger.” Nate’s face lights
up. “You know, like weeds.”
Russell slaps him on the back, I think to shut him up, and then
turns to Katie. “And . . . ​you are?”
“A DNA helix,” Katie says.
“Clever, I like it.”
I notice Alice scowling, the foundation cracking on her usually
flawless skin.
Something creaks overhead. The emerald light wobbles, send-
ing a g­ iant shadow scudding across Russell’s seamless features. “So
how do you want to do this, guys? Group or individually?”
24 AN NA DAY

“Group,” Katie and I say in stereo.

But Alice d ­ oesn’t hear, ­because she says, “Individually, please.”
I hear it again. My eyes scan the scaffolding; it looks sturdy
enough. The violins must be messing with my head.
“Come on then, superhuman.” Russell loops an arm around
Alice’s waist, but I d ­ on’t feel jealous, I just feel dizzy—­like I’ve
downed a vodka and Red Bull.
I ­hadn’t noticed the photographer u ­ ntil now. He seems to
emerge from nowhere, as though cut from the dark itself. I hear
that creak again, another shift of emerald light.
“So, what’s your name?” Russell says.
“Alice.”
“Well, you r­ eally are in Wonderland now.”
Willow would never say that. Disappointment surges up
my throat, making my lips tingle. The camera flashes, bleaching
out their f­aces, sending another shadow jutting up the canvas, all
spikes and dips. I blink several times.
Alice giggles. “Anime Alice, that’s my pen name. I write loads
of Gallows Dance fanfic, you may have heard of me?”
Russell looks impressed. “So ­you’re Anime Alice? The Anime
Alice. Sure, I’ve heard of you. ­You’re becoming quite the internet
sensation. Hey, Julia, get a photo of me with Alice ­here, it’ll look
­great on Instagram.”
Alice ­can’t resist a flick of her eyebrow for Nate’s benefit, right
before that infectious smile bursts across her face.
Julia fishes her iPhone from her pocket. “I hope he’s paying
you for this, Alice, was it?” She takes the photo. “Hey, next Comic-­
Con you should come along, sit on the fanfic panel. Y ­ ou’ve got a
­great face for publicity.”
Alice opens her mouth to respond, but the drums seem to
 T H E FA N D O M 25

swell, drowning out the rest of her words, and this strange smell
fills my nostrils—­medicine and burning fabric. I clasp my hands to
my ­temples, my pulse ramping up a gear.
“Violet?” Katie says.
The creaking is back, louder this time—it definitely i­sn’t the
violins. And that emerald light begins to flicker, like a bulb’s about to
blow or a thousand moths have gotten stuck ­behind the glass casing.
“Violet? Are you OK?” Katie says. Her face turns from green
to white, white to green.
The floor seems to swing a foot to the left, and I start to feel
like I’ve stepped off a carousel—­this morning’s porridge hot and
thick at the base of my throat. I think I hear someone scream my
name. I turn to see Nate’s mouth pulled open in a yawn, his brown
eyes wide. Instinctively, my eyes flick up. And that’s when I see it.
The emerald light spinning from a cable, the scaffolding lurching
forward. I barely have time to cover my face as the entire metal
structure hurtles t­ oward us.
 Copyright © 2018 by Anna Day

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Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data available

ISBN 978-1-338-23270-7
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1  18 19 20 21 22
Printed in the U.S.A.  23
First edition, May 2018
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